How Shawn Met the Winchesters and a Werewolf
by sgs09
Summary: It was probably dumb to be scouring the woods on a night like this.  But Shawn didn't really expect to become the next target of his friend's killer.  #2 in the Reference 'verse!
1. Just A Walk In The Woods

**Title:** How Shawn Met the Winchesters—and a Werewolf!

**Summary:** It was probably dumb to be scouring the woods on a night like this. But Shawn didn't really expect to become the next target of his friend's killer. (#2 in the _Reference_ 'verse!)

**Author's Note:** I've written kind of a prologue to this 'verse, with "Shawn Spencer: The Ultimate Reference" and now I am adding my first _official_ story to the series. This is the story of how Shawn Spencer met the Winchesters and first got into hunting. This is pre-series for both Psych and Supernatural. It's set seven months after Shawn has graduated. He and Dean are both 19, and Sam is 15.

Thanks to everyone who gave me such awesome reviews on the previous fic! This story will be five chapters long in total, so stay tuned. ;) I'll post another chapter in a day or two.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned rights to any of these awesome shows, I wouldn't be sitting here, writing fan fiction. I would be writing episodes. So believe me: I own nothing but the idea of this crossover 'verse and a strong desire to see Shawn and Dean compare their accuracy with a gun.

**Warnings:** Bad-assery ahead

#2 in the _Reference_ 'verse!

* * *

It was probably dumb to be scouring the woods on a night like this. Full moon reflecting brightly enough that he felt like a glowing target in the dark. Two murders already having taken place within a hundred feet of the very dirt he stood on now.

But never let it be said that Shawn Spencer was afraid of danger. Besides, Shawn didn't really expect to become the next target of his friend's killer. If things went as planned, the murderer would never even see him.

The woods were just outside of Windsor, Mississippi. It was a little chilly, though this year's August had been warmer than most. Shawn tugged his jean jacket a tighter around him and plodded on.

Two murders had happened in these woods already. A hiker and a hunter. The newspapers said they had been killed by wild animals. But Shawn had known the second victim, and if there was one thing to be known about Tattoo Kingdom's resident badass Nate Lang, it was that his greatest hobby was hunting. The man had picture upon picture posted in his office at Kingdom of different animals he had hunted. He was no small game hunter either. His pictures were pretty awesome.

No, Nate Lang had not been killed by any wild animal. Not on a night when he was fully decked out for a weekend of hunting.

Plus, Mr. Patterson, the coroner, had been good enough to inform Shawn that Nate's heart had been missing when he did the autopsy. Seriously, what kind of wild animal shredded a man's chest and ate only the heart? Shawn's running theory was that it had been a crazed serial killer who had a thing for werewolves. The missing heart hadn't been mentioned to the public yet, but Shawn had known Mr. Patterson personally. And they were both friends of Nate's.

So if there was a serial murderer running around the woods at night, why was Shawn standing under the moonlight now, walking like a naive target through the trees and brush?

Well, Shawn Spencer looked after his own. He had worked with Nate at the Tattoo Kingdom for two months. They were friends. Nate had a kid back home and a pretty wife. Shawn wouldn't let his death go unanswered for.

Besides, Shawn knew what he was doing. Heck, he had practically been _raised_ for this. His father had taught him everything he could about hunting down a criminal and even about evading someone in a forest. He was beyond prepared for this.

* * *

Dean crouched behind his father, Sam only a step behind them, in the dark forest. It was the last night of the lunar cycle, and they _had_ to catch this werewolf tonight. If they missed it, they'd have to return next month to finish the job.

John turned to address his two teenage sons, whispering for safety's sake. "Okay. You boys split up. Dean go West, Sam you're East. Circle this area and meet on the other end. I'm going to try to flush it out towards you."

Sam, at fifteen, had hit a phase of arguing with his father about everything it seemed. But for once, Dean was relieved to note that he only nodded his agreement and began to move. Too bad _Dean_ wanted to argue with his father. Werewolves were serious business—and John was just sending Sam off alone? That did not bode well with the older brother. But Sam was already moving, and Dean knew he had to go as well, so he mirrored his brother's action and hurried to the left, all the while hoping nothing would go wrong on this hunt.

They knew the werewolf was treading within the area, and John was pretty sure it was in the area they were circling now. Dean only hoped he wouldn't run into it before he was back with Sammy and his dad. (More so, he hoped _Sam_ wouldn't run into it before they met back up on the other side of the area.) Things were always easier when the three of them were together during a hunt. But if John Winchester said he would flush the monster out, there was no argument with the plan.

Hopefully Sammy would be able to stay upwind of the werewolf long enough to meet Dean on the other side of this small river running through the forest. They had to circle to the spots where they could cross over, then meet half a mile away to be at the other end of the area the werewolf seemed to be hiding.

Dean crossed the river without incident. And he made it halfway to the meeting point when the first gunshot shattered the quiet.

He crouched down reflexively, but he realized only a moment later that it hadn't been John's gun he heard. It had been Sam's! Dean jumped to his feet and began running in the direction of where his little brother should be, all the while praying he would be okay. Werewolves were tricky to kill without backup, and Sammy was still only fifteen.

He heard another gunshot, but this time it wasn't a sound he recognized. Someone else had come. And it had sounded in the same place as Sam's shot. He sped up, though he hardly knew how.

John appeared almost out of nowhere, heading the same direction. Neither of the older Winchesters spoke, words being unnecessary.

They could hear the sounds of shouting and fighting before they reached the small clearing. They burst into the open just in time to see Sam lying on the ground, a man standing over him, gun held out towards a group of trees to Dean's left. The werewolf was nowhere in sight.

Dean was about to call out Sam's name when the shadows suddenly morphed and the werewolf jumped out of the woods at the stranger. Dean only had time to raise his gun, but his angle was all wrong, and he couldn't shoot the monster when that guy was standing in the way.

Didn't matter though. The stranger fired, already diving away. He landed roughly on his side, only barely coming to a stop on the dirt and grass before raising the gun again—Sam's gun, Dean noted—and firing.

The werewolf dropped.

John was moving before Dean had even processed anything else. Then John was standing over the werewolf, making sure it was dead. Shooting it once more, just in case.

Then Dean blinked and hurried to Sam.

Sammy was conscious, he was glad to see, but bleeding from his chest where the werewolf had swiped him, and wincing against the pain. Dean began checking him over quickly, to make sure the wound wasn't that bad, and that it was the only issue.

"Hey, Sammy. You okay?" It was a dumb question when his younger brother had tears in his eyes from the pain, but it came out of Dean's mouth before he could think.

Sam looked relieved to see him. He tried to smile in reassurance, but it came out as a grimace. He was sweating and breathing hard.

The cuts looked painful, but they weren't life-threatening. So long as Dean could stem the blood flow, they should be all right.

He patted Sammy on an uninjured leg before settling his hands over the worst of it. "We're gonna get you out of here. Just stay awake for me, okay?"

Sam nodded weakly, one hand coming up to grasp Dean's jacket as he let his older brother work on applying pressure to his wound.

"He okay?" John asked suddenly from several feet away.

Dean looked up to see him checking over the stranger, and wrapping a piece of cloth around one bleeding arm. "He'll live. He got clawed up pretty badly though. Gonna need stitches."

"Yeah," the stranger gasped out as he sat up with John's help. "Sorry 'bout that. I tried to push him out of the way as soon as I saw that thing jump out at us, but it was faster than I expected."

"Thanks," Dean said, already knowing John wouldn't. "Anything we can do to repay you?"

John shot him a not-too-thankful look at the offer, but didn't argue it.

The stranger quirked a smile at him. "You could start by telling me what the heck that was."

* * *

**AN:** Hope you're having fun so far! The next chapter will show Shawn's POV for what just happened. Thanks for reading!


	2. Back, You Beast! Or Thing?

**AN:** Thanks to my reviewers! Even a few simple words go a long way in getting me to keep working. ;)

In this chapter, you'll get to see Shawn's view on the whole werewolf take-down!

**Disclaimer:** I still own nothing but these words (and none of them being character names or references to either Psych or Supernatural). So, therefore...I own nothing? Except for this crossover story idea, of course.

#2 in _The Reference_ 'verse! Enjoy! :)

* * *

Shawn heard the rustling in the woods long before he ever caught sight of the guy. The nearing shuffle and footsteps gave him plenty of time to find a spot where he could take the killer down on his own terms.

There was a small clearing not far away. It would be perfect.

So Shawn quickly went to the far side of the clearing, only thirty square feet total, and hid behind a tree. He went still just as the figure darted out of the trees on the other side of the clearing. It turned quickly to face the way it had come, raising a gun and firing into the trees.

Shawn's fingers tightened around the handgun he held. He had borrowed it from Nate's house early that morning when he went to speak to Jenna. She didn't know about it, and that was how he was going to keep it.

He was about to raise the gun and yell for the man to put his hands up, when it suddenly hit him that this was no man. Too small. It was a kid. Just a kid...with a gun...? He was looking around like he expected to see something, and fingering his gun like he knew how to handle the weapon comfortably. The single shot he had fired into the tree line had seemed controlled. Natural.

Whoever the kid was, he was comfortable with that pistol.

Shawn frowned and took a step out into the open. "Police! Don't move!"

The kid froze, but didn't drop the gun. "You gotta get out of here!" the kid whispered loudly. "Something's coming."

Shawn kept his gun on the kid—never can be too careful—and walked towards him. The boy was dressed for a cool night in the woods: jeans, hunting boots, and a slightly too-large jacket.

"You going to drop that gun or what?" Shawn asked, following the kid's eyes when he looked over his shoulder again.

"You don't understand," the kid whispered, now that Shawn was standing right next to him. "It's here..."

Shawn wasn't sure what 'it' was, but he was betting it wasn't good from the stillness the kid suddenly showed. Shawn wasn't even sure if the kid was breathing now. He was about to say something when a shadow moved at the edge of the tree line.

Shawn raised his gun towards it, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in his gut as the kid followed suit.

"Get behind me," he ordered the kid in a whisper.

"No," he replied, just as quietly.

"Kid, I don't know who you are but this might get—"

Before Shawn could even say 'dangerous' a form leapt out of the trees at them. Shawn tried to shove the kid out of the way, but if the yell was any indication, he hadn't saved the kid from the full attack. Suddenly it didn't matter, because the guy—thing? It had teeth like you wouldn't believe!—lunged at him. Shawn punched him—it?—in the face, barely avoiding the mouthful of freaky teeth. The claws—yes, claws!—slit his arm, but he ignored it as best he could.

Shawn's gun had been knocked away. He dove for the kid, who lay on the ground, struggling to reach his own gun, which had fallen several feet away. Shawn grabbed it and aimed.

"You have to shoot it in the heart!" the kid shouted urgently.

Shawn fired for the gut though. No way was he shooting for that tiny target when he had a whole core area to hit.

The shot was almost perfectly in the center of the man's—if he was a man—chest and stomach. Probably only a few inches from the heart. Definitely would have done damage to someone normal.

But this guy—thing—just let out a scream and dove into the trees with a speed Shawn could hardly believe. Shawn quickly stood and set his feet, taking his place over the injured boy on the ground. He could hear the quiet and harsh breathing of the kid, but he tried to ignore it as he listened intently for sounds of that...thing...coming back.

There were two sets of footsteps running towards him. He looked that direction only long enough to see two men run into the clearing, guns drawn. But Shawn didn't have time to even process their presence before he saw the shadows morph out of the corner of his eye.

The thing jumped out of the shadows. Shawn drew an immediate bead for a headshot and dove out of the way almost as soon as his finger pressed the trigger. If a gut shot didn't work, a headshot would have to. Right?

He landed roughly on his side, and nearly had a heart attack when he saw he hadn't even slowed the creature—because he had decided by this point that since no human could withstand a headshot, it _must_ be a creature. His and side were aching from the hard landing on dirt and rocks, but he held the gun steady and fired for the thing's heart.

What the heck, right?

And wouldn't you know it—the thing _dropped!_ Like, dead-on-the-spot _dropped!_

Shawn let his arms fall, breathing heavily. He barely heard the voice calling out someone's name. It took him a moment to realize someone was leaning over him, checking his limbs and chest for wounds. Rubbing something against the slice on his left arm.

Clumsily he fought the hands back, until it occurred to him that the man was trying to help.

* * *

"He'll live. He got clawed up pretty badly though. Gonna need stitches."

"Yeah," the stranger gasped out as he sat up with John's help. "Sorry 'bout that. I tried to push him out of the way as soon as I saw that thing jump out at us, but it was faster than I expected."

"Thanks," Dean said, already knowing John wouldn't. "Anything we can do to repay you?"

John shot him a not-too-thankful look at the offer, but didn't argue it.

The stranger quirked a smile at him. "You could start by telling me what the heck that was."

"You're not a hunter?" John asked, sounding surprised.

The stranger laughed a little at that. "I can tell you, sir, I really don't have the desire to spend my few hours off work out in the middle of nowhere, shooting Bambi's cousins and fluffy bunny friends."

John wasn't really sure what to say to that, and neither was Dean. So the latter just supplied the stranger with, "It was a werewolf."

Again, John shot him a _look_. But they didn't have time to argue about letting civilians in on the truth, because this guy burst out laughing.

"I knew it! The teeth, the claws, the lunar schedule. When the kid here," he nodded towards Sam, "said I had to shoot it in the heart, I hesitated. That's why the first shot I tried was a gut shot. Easier, faster, and for most things, just as efficient. You guys came on the scene just as I decided a headshot might take it down since the gut just made him angry. Obviously, not so. Then I finally decided to go out on a limb and try the heart, and what do you know—it worked. Huh."

John shook his head at the stranger's ramblings. "If you didn't know what was killing people out here, what were you doing in the woods? Don't you know people have died out here recently?"

The smile fell from his face. "Yeah. I know. That's why I came." He shrugged. "Figured, at first, it was a serial killer who wanted to blame it on werewolves. What with the heart being taken from the bodies, I thought it was like a calling card. A friend of mine was the last victim. I decided to come play dumb victim and see if I could draw the killer out." One side of his mouth tipped up in a smile. "Guess my plan worked. Kind of."

"What's your name, kid?" John asked.

It was only then that Dean could tell how young the stranger was. He was probably no older than Dean was, at nineteen.

"Shawn Spencer," the stranger said, reaching out a steady hand to shake the eldest Winchester's.

"I'm John Winchester. These are my boys, Dean and Sam." John took Sam's gun from the ground, where it lay, and tucked it away. "You injured anywhere other than this arm, Shawn?"

"Bruised," Shawn said with an easygoing shrug. "Think I landed on a rock when I jumped out of the way for that last shot." He rubbed the side of his ribcage with a wince.

John stood and helped the kid up. Then he came over to check on Sam finally.

"You okay, son?" He asked, kneeling down opposite from Dean.

Even in the moonlight, Dean could tell Sam was pale. He had started to shiver a little too, but he was still conscious and alert. He made a slight nod to tell his father he was all right.

John shrugged out of his jacket and placed it over Sam, covering Dean's hands as they stayed pressed against the worst of the wounds. "Okay. Let me torch this sucker, then we'll head home and get you fixed up."

As he moved away to take care of the corpse, Shawn took his place by Sam. Dean looked up at him warily, but said nothing.

"How bad is it?" the guy asked, studying Sam almost clinically, as if he could see through John's jacket to the wounds it hid.

"He'll be fine," Dean replied gruffly. "Thanks...for saving his life, I mean."

Shawn looked like he was about to shrug it off, but he must have seen enough in Dean's eyes to realize how serious he was. So he nodded. "Yeah. Sure. Do you guys have a car nearby? You need to get him warm. He looks like he's about to go into shock."

Dean knew that already, but he was surprised this guy could tell. He was just a kid Dean's own age. Just a _normal_ kid. "You have some kind of first aid training or something?"

"Or something," Shawn just said. Then he glanced over his shoulder to watch as John set the corpse aflame.

* * *

**AN:** Next chapter: a bit of time fixing Sammy up, a bit of time messing with Shawn's head. You know—the same old, same old...

I'll have it up in a few days.

~sgs09


	3. Real Ghost Hunters?

**AN:** Now to keep Sammy alive...!

**Disclaimer:** I own Tom and this story idea. Everything else (Shawn and Dean sadly included...) is shamelessly stolen from professional writers. :[

* * *

Shawn hadn't been kidding about the first aid training. His father had taught him a lot about first aid. He had learned more on the road in the year he had been away from home. He'd only recently turned nineteen, but he had more training for first aid, CPR, and other medical know-how than any lifeguard or average kid his age.

As he watched John Winchester keep the flames from burning anything but the corpse of what now only appeared to be a large but _normal_ man, he absently took the younger Winchester kid's hand and began rubbing warmth into his fingers and wrist.

"So you guys do this often?" he asked conversationally of the older son.

Dean huffed a sarcastic laugh. "What—hunt down monsters or keep each other from bleeding out?"

Shawn shrugged.

"I guess you could say that," Dean admitted. "Yeah. We hunt monsters. It's kind of our...I don't know, our family duty. And I guess when you make a living of hunting evil, it's bound to come out of the shadows and bite you in the butt every few hunts or so."

"That sucks."

"It's not so bad. We've made it this far."

Shawn didn't bother to argue. "How long will it take to finish with the campfire and smores? I don't like the sound of your brother's breathing, and I've got a car parked not too far away."

Mr. Winchester must have overheard the discussion, because he turned from the fire to look the three of them over. His eyes settled on Shawn. "How far is the car?"

"Quarter mile, if that. We're not far from the edge of the woods now."

"Ours is about two miles Northwest." For a moment, the man considered their options. And for some reason, Shawn felt that Mr. Winchester would not have accepted if his kid hadn't been so injured. But after a moment (and a worried glance at the kid,) he gave in. "I guess we'll take yours if you don't mind."

It wasn't really a question. But Shawn wouldn't have turned them down if it had been. "I'll help get him to the car. You can finish here."

"Drive him to the motel, Dean," Mr. Winchester said. "I'll clean up, then grab the Impala and meet you over there."

Shawn and Dean were already moving to lift Sam. Between the two of them, they managed to get the kid up and in a semi-horizontal position that they could move with. Then Shawn began hurrying them towards his borrowed car.

He would feel a little bad the next morning for the blood that stained the back seat. But for the moment, his only thought was to get the Winchester kid inside and warm, then get them to wherever they were going, to fix this kid up.

Both of the Winchesters sat in the back, Sam draped across Dean's lap. Shawn drove as fast as he dared, knowing that one of the cops in the district didn't like him already. Dean directed him to a motel, pausing his quiet litany to the semi-conscious boy only to tell Shawn when to turn.

Shawn was barely surprised when he was told to stop in the Crestview Motel parking lot. It was one of the better cheap motels in the city. The owner was a friend of Shawn's actually. Well, maybe not a friend, but an acquaintance. He was the cousin of Jenna Lang, Nate's wife. In a town this size, it seemed everybody knew everyone else.

Shawn parked outside of room nine, hurrying out of the car and to the back door to help Dean get Sammy out. The kid was unconscious now—no surprise there—and no longer shivering. Shawn helped Dean prop the kid between them again, then they moved for the door as quickly as they could without tripping over the sidewalk. Shawn took most of the kid's weight for a moment as Dean shoved the key into the door and opened the room. Then they were inside and laying Sam out on the farthest bed from the door.

Dean immediately grabbed a large box of first aid materials from the foot of the bed. Shawn ducked into the bathroom for towels, taking the empty ice bucket for water, and came back to find Dean already cutting his brother's shirt away.

They worked in tandem for some minutes. Dean gave his brother a shot of something to dull the pain and worked on the stitches, moving efficiently as if he had done this on more than one occasion. Shawn took care of making the boy as comfortable as possible, pausing to wipe Sam's chest carefully when Dean started having trouble seeing the wounds properly.

They were almost finished before Mr. Winchester arrived at the motel. He came in to find both Shawn and Dean bent over Sam, putting in the last stitch and wiping away the last of the bloody mess.

Shawn noticed the appraising look he was sent from Mr. Winchester, before the man asked, "Everything okay now, Dean?"

Dean was packing away the first aid equipment already. "As good as it gets," he said tiredly.

It was only then that Shawn really let himself have a look around the room. The walls had pin-ups of newspaper articles and pictures. There was a bag of weapons tucked haphazardly under the foot of one bed, looking as if the Winchesters had forgotten to close it all the way. A line of salt was on all of the windows and across floor of the doorway. There were symbols scratched onto the windows with some kind of marker or something.

Huh.

"So uh..." Shawn gave everything a second look. "Are werewolves afraid of salt or something?" It seemed the safest way to ask his questions.

Mr. Winchester glanced toward the doorway, moving the line of salt a little with the toe of his boot to realign what had moved when they entered the room. "Nah. Not really. But other things tend to stay away from it."

Shawn let himself process that all of five seconds, before deciding he dared to ask it. "Other things?" His forced an amused, but fake, smirk. "I guess you mean like vampires and stuff?"

"No, not vampires. Far as we know, vamps aren't real. But the salt helps us keep out of the reach of..."

"Other stuff," Shawn finished for him, when the man fell silent. "Do I even want to know?"

Mr. Winchester shrugged, studying him again. "I don't know. Do you?"

He thought about it, but what could he really say to that except yes? It would kill him to leave now and wonder for the rest of his life what was really out there. Werewolves were obviously real! What other crazy stuff was running around?

Mr. Winchester must have seen it in his eyes, because he nodded and took a seat on the other bed. "The salt repels ghosts and certain spirits. You make a circle around yourself, or block the windows and doorways, ghosts can't get to you. Demons either."

Great. Awesome.

"Huh," was all that Shawn found to say.

Dean pushed the first aid kit back to the foot of the bed and headed for the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands.

"And you guys hunt these things?" Shawn couldn't help asking.

"Yeah," Mr. Winchester said. "It's our job."

Shawn swallowed. Huh. He'd met ghost-hunters. Honest to goodness ghost-hunters. Interesting.

"I'm uh, I'd better get home," he said lamely. "It's late, and uh, you guys probably need to rest. So I'll uh, yeah..."

He headed for the door, but Mr. Winchester stopped him. "Hey, Shawn. You did good out there tonight. Never seen a kid your age shoot like that. Other than my boys, of course. That headshot was..." He shook his head in wonder.

Shawn grinned. "Yeah, it might have been a perfect shot if only his heart had been where his brain sat. But thanks."

With that, he stepped out of the motel room and closed the door behind himself. For a second, he just stood there and wondered what he had gotten himself into. With a helpless shake of his head, he turned towards the main office.

Tom, Jenna Lane's cousin, was at the front desk just as Shawn had expected. His greeting was subdued. "Hey, Shawn. What can I do for you tonight?" But then he caught sight of Shawn's arm—wrapped in a stained handkerchief. "What did you do to you arm?" he asked worriedly, already circling the desk to have a look.

Shawn let him, knowing it would be easier. "It's nothing," he still argued though. "I hardly feel it."

A lie, of course. It gave off a pulsing ache with every beat of his heart.

Tom knew it too. "'Nothing,' my butt," he muttered, taking a good long look at it. He must have decided it wasn't life-threatening, because he tied the handkerchief back onto Shawn's arm and backed up a step to be out of his personal space.

Shawn shoved his hands in his pockets self-consciously. "Um, listen, I'm gonna quit working at the Kingdom. With Nate gone...well, I was working there mostly as a favor to him, and I don't really..."

Tom nodded. "Jenna and I figured you would be moving on again. We'll be sorry to see you go, though."

"Yeah well, next time you see her, can you uh, tell her we got the guy."

Tom was immediately furious. "I told you not to go off into the woods, Shawn!" he almost shouted. "Is that what happened to you? Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"I'm fine, Tom. Really. I went out tonight, and ran into this kid in the woods. We were attacked, but I had a weapon, so..."

He grimaced. "You and the kid okay?"

"He got a little roughed up," Shawn said, "but um, you won't have to worry about the murderer anymore. He won't be hurting anyone else."

For a split second, Tom's eyes filled with relief. Then they changed to sadness. "I'm sorry you had to do that, Shawn. Sorry you'll have to remember it."

He shook his head. "It was self defense. He was going to kill the kid and then me. I just got a lucky shot in."

Tom nodded. "Okay. I'll tell Jenna for you tomorrow. You going to at least say goodbye to her?"

"I'll try. If I don't get the chance tomorrow though, don't think I didn't want to."

Tom shook his hand. "It's been nice to know ya, Shawn."

"See ya, Tom."

* * *

**AN:** next up—what does Shawn decide to do? Where does he decide to go next on his road trip?

The next chapter will be up soon!


	4. A Restless Night

**AN:** Thanks to all my reviewers! I'm going to post the last chapters now because I'm going on vacation and didn't want to leave people waiting. I actually think I had the most fun writing this chapter, but it's hard to explain why. I guess I just enjoyed slightly hysterical!Shawn. xp

**Disclaimer:** Much as I wish I could claim Shawn or Dean, I can't. I don't care quite as much about Sam, but I wouldn't mind having him either. John, you guys can keep. Although, I'm trying to write him as being kind of cool.

* * *

Shawn barely slept that night. He was out for maybe half an hour, but was rudely interrupted by a nightmare about running from the ghost of a werewolf-demon who kept yelling that vampires weren't real.

When he woke, he began to consider his future very seriously.

He wouldn't stay in Mississippi. He had stuck around for Nate's sake, but now... He could go to Texas. Still hadn't been to Austin yet, though he had been heading that direction when he ran into Nate. Or he might head back to Santa Barbara and spend the rest of December with Gus.

Except he might run into his dad. And spending _Christmas_ with his dad? Now? After only seven months away from his whole messed-up training and so-called 'fathering'? No way.

East coast might be nice this time of year...

Dang it—he had killed a werewolf! A friggin' werewolf! How was life supposed to move on? Where was he supposed to go to forget this whole night ever happened? He knew he wouldn't forget though. And it wasn't just because he had photographic memory so sharp he could almost reach out and touch things. No, tonight had been unforgettable and insane.

Insane! That was it! Maybe the Winchesters were insane.

The serial killer had been wearing false teeth—he had grown his nails out longer—and he was just an _ordinary_ psycho. And he had seemed to move so quickly because Shawn was just thrown and distracted by the teeth and the...and the nails that had looked so, so much like real claws. And the headshot. It had gone wide. Shawn had missed—probably only by a few inches, but he had definitely missed.

Shawn cursed and sat up in his bed. There was no way he had missed that shot. It had been perfect. He had practically _felt_ it hit the guy—_thing_—right between the eyes. And it hadn't gone down. The thing (guy?) had only seemed to waver in its attack as Shawn jumped away.

Only the bullet to its heart made it stop. And when he shot it in the heart, it dropped _immediately_.

Crap. He had killed a werewolf.

He could see it now—Shawn Spencer: werewolf killer.

A hysterical laugh burst out of Shawn before he could slam a hand over his mouth to stop it.

It took him a moment to calm himself. But slowly, he found he could breathe normally again. And his memories were no longer plaguing him with every horrifying thought from his nightmare anymore. Too bad his brain refused to do the same for his memories of the werewolf.

It was like a video set on a loop in his head—the kid with the gun...telling the kid to get behind him...pushing him out of the way...firing...diving...falling, landing, hurting, firing, staring. The thing _dropping_. Then a fuzzy layer of shock covering him. Swallowing him... Then hiding behind a tree again, watching the kid with the gun...

He sat in his bed for a long time, watching the mental video over and over. He couldn't stop it.

As he watched the mental replays, he tried to think of how to fix his messed-up life. If it wasn't beyond repair already. Seriously! He was a werewolf-killer now? What next—a ghost-hunter like the Winchesters?

When the clock showed 5am, he gave up all pretense of ever falling asleep again, and began to pack up his meager belongings. What he couldn't keep on the road, he put into a box to be sent to Gus. His friend back home would keep the stuff in a storage unit Shawn was paying for in Santa Barbara. Anything he didn't want was put in another box for donations to a local thrift store.

By 7am, he was packed and ready to go. He got breakfast and drove his boxes to the thrift store and post office, then headed over to return the borrowed car to Jenna.

It was hard to tell the woman goodbye. She cried on his shoulder, but understood his reasons for wanting to leave. And Shawn explained about the backseat being a little damp by saying he had to clean a stain off of it that morning. Fortunately for him, he knew a homemade formula that he had been able to use on the blood stains. The seat looked almost as good as before.

He stepped inside only long enough to slip Nate's gun back into the lockbox in the upstairs bedroom (while Jenna went to wake her son). Then he told Jenna and Simon goodbye, making the kid laugh when he promised to mail them a souvenir if he ever got to live in a Native American reservation like planned.

When all was said and done, Shawn grabbed his motorcycle from the Lane garage and drove back to Tom's motel. He still had someone to see.

* * *

John blinked against the sunlight that came through the window so very early that morning. Daylight had come too quickly. Now they needed to get out of this motel before they attracted any attention. He would have to get Sam bundled up in the back of the Impala before many other people were up and about to see them. Once they got to the next town, they could let Sam rest for a few days before finding the next hunt. For now though, he wanted out of here.

He got up and began to pack their things, glancing over at his boys every now and then to make sure he wasn't waking them.

Sam slept in the bed, no longer pale and shivering like the night before. The only sign that he was injured was the slight frown of pain on his forehead as he slept, and the very edge of a bandage poking out from under the covers that were pulled almost to his chin. Dean slept on the floor, seemingly as comfortable there as anywhere else. His face was turned towards his brother, constantly in watch over Sammy, even in unconsciousness. As usual.

They would be okay. The three of them would be okay.

He had come startlingly close to losing Sam the previous night. He had nearly had a heart attack when he saw the werewolf lunge at his younger son in the woods. He hadn't even been able to raise his gun and aim. A sickening sense of shock and disbelief settled over him, and he just..._froze_. If it hadn't been for that random stranger—maybe the only kid besides Dean who could shoot with such accuracy—he might not have his baby boy with him this morning. It was a sobering thought. He didn't know what he would do if they lost Sammy. Or, heaven help them, what _Dean_ would do...

There was a knock at the door. John knew it wasn't housekeeping, because the knock was too hesitant, but he wasn't sure who else it could be. Carefully, he double checked that any and all weapons were out of sight before slipping a gun into the back of his pants and moving to the door. He opened it just a crack. And of all the people he might have expected to see standing outside, he didn't guess Shawn Spencer.

The kid was back, watching him with serious eyes.

John glanced at the boys and decided to let them sleep. Stepping out of the room, he closed the door quietly behind him. "What can I do for you, son?"

Shawn seemed to hesitate for a moment, then plunged in. "Um, last night you kind of said it was your job to uh..." He glanced around, and decided not to finish that sentence. "And with my boss gone now, I don't really have a job here anymore, so I was kind of just wondering if you guys, uh, might need an extra set of hands? Maybe just until Sam's feeling better?"

The kid was serious. He was actually seriously asking...

John shook his head. "You don't want to do that, Shawn. Trust me, you don't want this life." _Get out while you still can..._

Shawn looked him straight in the eye, surprisingly. "It's not really something I think you can judge, sir. Besides, you saw what I can do with a gun. I'm quick on my feet, I've been trained in different types of combat, and I know as much first aid as your older son, if not more."

John crossed his arms.

The kid sighed. "I just...now that I know there's stuff like that out there, I can't sit here and pretend it's not real. I'd rather know all I can about what I'm up against than go on, blissfully unaware, and get plowed down by a ghost later. You know? And I want to stop that from happening to other people, too. You guys keep stuff away from everyone else. I want to help."

John studied the boy for a long moment. Surprisingly, he didn't squirm like most people would. The boy was serious. Very serious.

"You're sure you want to do this," John said, only half asking it.

"Positive."

He pretended to think about it for a moment before folding. "Okay then. You can come with us for a little while. We owe you for saving Sam's life anyway. You got a car or something to follow us in?"

"Motorcycle," the kid said. It was only then that he noticed the helmet Shawn was holding behind himself.

"That'll be pretty uncomfortable for the longer drives," John said with an amused smirk.

Shawn only shrugged. "Once did a fourteen-hour drive, only stopping for gas. Can't get much worse than that."

Guess not.

"Okay then," John said. "The boys are still asleep, but you can come on in while I finish packing. We'll get breakfast then hit the road in an hour."

Shawn smiled and entered the motel room.

* * *

**AN:** Just the epilogue left!

A 14-hour motocycle drive might have paralyzed Shawn for life. And I'm not sure John should have agreed quite so easily to take him in, but...creative license! *flashes a cheap sticky-note with a grainy picture on it*


	5. Shawn Spencer: Werewolf Slayer

**AN:** Here's the epilogue I just _had_ to tack on to the end. *laugh* I couldn't help myself!

**Disclaimer:** I only pretend to own Psych and Supernatural. In all honesty, they're totally not mine. And believe me, that fact does not help me sleep at night...

* * *

Shawn Spencer, werewolf-slayer, hunted with the Winchester trio for three months. It was a job unlike any other he had ever experienced—and ever _would_ experience.

He was good at it. Good at getting the job done. He could talk is way into places with an air of ease John wouldn't have guessed. He shot with slightly better accuracy than Dean, it turned out. He made friends with Sam, and earned respect then friendship from Dean. He fit in well with the Winchesters, and quickly found his own place in the group.

When he left the Winchesters after three months, there were no hard feelings. John had always suspected he didn't have the heart for the job. He also lacked what John possessed—a reason for following this life. He had blessedly not been touched by the supernatural before taking down that first werewolf. Hunting wasn't his life. He wasn't meant for it, nor it him.

So he left eventually. Found another job in another state, and kept moving. His life continued on. His road trip continued on. And he promised to help the Winchesters out if they ever needed an extra set of hands. So they called him up every now and again. They promised in turn to help him with anything, should he ever need it, and he cashed that offer in once or twice. Whenever the Winchesters happened to be near a city Shawn was staying in, they would stop by and see him. If he heard of hunts during his road trip, he would drop them a line and they would come take care of it, or find someone else who could.

As it turned out, he probably did more than his fair share of helping them, because he soon took to introducing the Winchesters to acquaintances of his. With his road trip, he met more people and made more friends than he had ever pictured. Even two years into the trip, it seemed like he knew people from all over the States, and his third year was spent traveling the other continents. With the friends he made, he found some pretty helpful acquaintances. So he took to referring the Winchesters to people he knew. If they needed something specific, and he knew of someone who could help, he gave them the number and cashed in a favor with someone from his trip.

It worked. Shawn became their reference, and he was fine with that. The Winchesters helped him out enough with other stuff. And they were friends of his. He wasn't quite one of them—a hunter—but Shawn was close enough. And both he and the Winchesters looked after their own.

So that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Shawn Spencer came to know the Winchesters. With all of the people he met on his road trip, he was bound to run into a hunter someday. It's not all that surprising, really. Hunting monsters was just one of his weirder occupations over the years.

* * *

**AN:** Thanks for reading!


End file.
